


Not To Be Trifled With.

by Tammany



Series: The Sussex Downs [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, The Further Deductions of Sherlock Holmes., The Plot Thickens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 10:49:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20290228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: And the beat goes on, and the beat goes on.Sherlock deals with his own sulky temper, the mystery of the strangers, and the disgusting domesticity of his brother and his police mentor. Further guests arrive to complicate matters.





	Not To Be Trifled With.

His brother was changed.

He had, somehow, failed to fully reckon with it. But Mycroft had been changing for a long time. Longer than Sherlock could pin down. When had Mycroft stopped being “the most dangerous man you will ever meet,” and become “Great Britain in Love”? When had he become the man who looked at those…beings…and chose to be charmed, rather than appalled?

Look at them. The mockery of Mummy making orgasmic little squeals, kitten tongue lapping cream from the corners of her mouth while Mycroft and Lestrade both worshipped and flirted and beamed at her—even as they leaned together on the sofa, hands tangled and shoulders rubbing close. And the long-legged, sarky alien watched them all and doted on his not-woman…

What was happening?

This was wrong.

(Images of Mycroft slumped in a hospital chair, crying, tried to force their way into his memory. He could hear his brother even now: “This is wrong. It’s not supposed to work this way. What did I do wrong?”)

Mummy had told Mycroft, for heaven's sake, over and over: he had to grow up. Stop thinking about himself and his petty ambitions and his egotistical belief he could change anything beyond help his family. He had to stop protecting himself, and protect the family instead. That’s what he was for.

He’d already failed Eurus and Dear Sherlock over and over. Would he never be happy until his negligence had destroyed them?

“Have some trifle, Sherlock, dear,” Angel sang brightly. “It’s not as though your brother’s going to serve you. He’s already done more than his duty as host.”

Sherlock’s eyes locked with hers. His chin set, his head rose, his eyes narrowed, his lips pinched. How dare she?

Her eyes were cool, calm, amused, and surprisingly compassionate. “Run along, dear,” she said. “Live your better self.”

“Or don’t,” Crowley grinned, mischief in every inch of his body and every tone of his voice, as he wrapped himself fondly around his Angel’s pleasantly round frame. Arm over her shoulders, thigh close to thigh, far leg crossed over to let him trace her shin with one toe-tip. “You can always grapple with me. M’ happy enough to help you kick your better self’s arse.”

Mycroft’s eyes laughed. He knew—he knew what they were, and knew they were toying with Sherlock. He barely bit back a snarl, rising and turning and stalking to the kitchen to scoop up the bowl of trifle he’d refused to serve himself earlier.

He took a bite. Damn…

It was good.

He narrowed his eyes, and scowled.

He was not ready to be domesticated yet. He wasn’t about to give up his cool…and if he had to wrestle Crowley for his cool to the final fall, he’d wrestle.

He sauntered vaguely parlor-ward, trifle cupped in one deep, long-fingered hand, spoon in the other. He leaned his lazy bones against the wall by the fireplace, and popped the empty spoon when he’d sucked the custard down.

Screw ‘em if they thought they’d brought him down.

On the sofa, Crowley gave a crack of laughter.

“That’s it, boy. Show ‘em how it’s done! Spit in the eye of Heaven. Laugh in the face of Hell.”

“Crowley, don’t encourage him!” Angel considered Sherlock, prim and upright in her secure place in the curve of Crowley’s arm. Her face was sober, and she studied him—then smiled, suddenly amused. “Or—do. Perhaps a bit of encouragement has its place. How are the plans for the cottage coming, lad?”

“I’ve called for help in the heavy-lifting,” Sherlock said, casually. “Friends.”

“Friends?” Mycroft was suddenly alert and wary.

“Erm…they have something to do with shipping,” Sherlock said, making no effort to hide a glitter of amusement.

Mycroft clucked, and huffed. “Smugglers.”

“Good heavens,” Angel chirped. “Really?!”

Crowley sniggered, and Greg ducked his head to hide a grin.

“Best not ask,” Mycroft said, voice grim. “Sherlock, please do not tempt me. I can still deny you use of the cottage if I must.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed. “Booooooooring. Mycroft, you’re no fun.”

Angel got a wicked look in her eye, and in a far too cheerful voice said, “We could do stage magic. Stage magic is fun.”

Crowley swallowed down a cross between a moan and a shout of laughter, nearly choking on it. “Angel, you’re such a bastard.”

“I suppose we all are, dear,” Angel said. “Mummy being as Mummy is.”

More choked down laughter, followed by Angel’s bossy, “Hush…”

Sherlock sighed, and took his time, watching them, eating his trifle. Trying to put his finger on what was wrong, with his family and with the “guests.”

He looked at Angel, and tried to work out why he was so sure Angel was not normally a pretty blonde woman in her early fifties, as fair and fluffy as a bag of marshmallows.

He scowled.

It was just…off. As though she wore herself. Like a girl in high heels for the first time. And beyond that, she played a role. Bits she was familiar with—she was well-versed in her teasing jokes with her partner, as though they’d been together for years, an old-married vibe so dense it made fudge look fluffy.

And, yet…

She curled in the arch of her lover’s arm as though that were new, and took nerve and spine and concentration to pretend was “normal.”

She flirted with Mycroft and Greg as though it were new and shiny—and discussed more serious things as though completely at ease.

She wore her clothing like a Christmas tree wore its lights and tinsel: for effect.

And yet, Crowley was only a bit more authentic. His arm around her shoulder—brand new and bright as a penny, but perfectly natural and cherished. Fashion sense? Just short of Doctor Who’s average, when you really thought about it, with a weird anachronistic vibe that, come to think of it, was a phrase you could use to describe Angel’s peculiar good-girl fem chic. And their conversation was wrong, too.

Angel appreciated her body oddly. You could tell she loved it with the sort of delight one associated with a successful cosmetic surgery patient charmed with her new tits, or, yes, a transitioning transsexual who liked the new body emerging over time. And yet—

She lacked the intensity of either cosmetic surgery patient or transitioning transsexual. Both showed signs of ambivalence—toward their old selves, toward the inevitable imperfections of their new selves. Angel seemed more like a woman with a brand new dress she adored, and could abandon when she got tired of it.

“Parasite,” Sherlock said, lingering over the word, testing the premise.

“Sherlock, brother, do you think you could mind your manners even a little?”

Sherlock gave Mycroft the evil eye. “Maybe if you’d tell me who we have here in our house.”

“My house. You’re getting the cottage, after all.” There was a note of surprised determination in Mike’s voice, as though he himself were surprised to feel possessive greed over the big house. But his mind was on Sherlock’s deductions. Uneasily concentrated on them…

“Parasite,” Sherlock said again. When Mycroft sputtered, he took another spoon of trifle, savoring all the bits: cake and fruit and custard and jelly and whipped cream and Chambord… He cleaned the spoon carefully, making a little pop when he pulled it clean, then, forced to acknowledge accomplishment when he tasted it, said, “Impressive effort, Grantly. You should have been a pastry chef, not a detective. Well…I say detective. You have the title and warrant card, I suppose.”

“Oi,” Greg said, irked and amused at one time. “You just have to be a wanker? When you’re getting a free home with a seaside view? Not to mention a bowl of trifle fit for royalty if I do say so. You’re a lucky man, Sherlock, if you knew it.”

“Sherlock, manners. For the love of G… For goodness ssssss…… Um.” Mycroft shot their two guests the oddest look, a mix of guilt and apprehension. “Oh, bugger.” Then he stopped cold, and swiveled to Lestrade. “You like this place?”

Lestrade gave him an “Are you crazy” look. “Well, d’oh. Not barmy, am I?”

“Really?” Mycroft sounded quite chipper. “I thought you were rather gone on the Buckinghamshire place.”

“Big, grey, cold, no ocean. Formal gardens, no place for a bit of veg. I know you love it, but—maybe we can split time? Half here, half there?”

“Oh, do shut it,” Sherlock growled. “Save the domestic fluff for when I’m not here.” He looked at the guests again.

They were giggling. Giggling! At him!

He was about to have a major strop when the doorbell rang.

“Bugger,” Sherlock growled. He pointed at Angel and Crowley. “Sit right there. Don’t move. This should take three minutes maximum, and then we _shall _have a reckoning.” He pushed off from the wall and stalked in haughtiest fashion to the front door, wishing he was wearing his Belstaff for maximum coat-swirl.”

He opened the door even as he started to rant, determined to get the first word in.

“Best bugger off if…”

A short, blond figure in a jumper with a knapsack over his shoulder pushed past him, dragging a six year old in tow. “Shut it, Sherlock, just shut it. I have had a day you would not believe. Fought with Adair, left the partnership, and all over you. YOU. You could at least tell me when I hire on with people you’ve run over with your deductions. You are a buggering occupational hazard. And then Adele had a crying jag because she never gets to see me between you and Rosie, and I had to promise her this weekend, until I remembered I have no one to watch Rosie this weekend, and she kicked me out and slammed the door, and then I remembered that Adair’s the one who lets me the flat, and this is your fault. It’s all your fault.”

“Ah.” Sherlock blinked. “Um. John.”

“Yes, ‘John.’ Who else?” John scowled at him.

Sherlock looked at him, and overloaded. He was a quiet man living in quiet digs with a never-large set of house mates. Now he was out of place, with his brother, his brother’s lover, two suspicious strangers who were also lovebirds—and John in a strop. And Rosie, who looked ready to drop from exhaustion and despair.

He lifted his bowl. He tinged the edge with his spoon. “Trifle, then? Best quality. If either of you is interested…”

Rosie looked at the bowl with eyes brimming. “Oh, yes, Unc. Oh, please, yes. All Da got me for dinner was a tuna sandwich from a café on the way down…” And she began to cry.


End file.
